The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley

by Susan Örnbratt

  “Oh, I do prefer you like this!” she muttered.

  “Do you now?” he said salaciously.

  “I have you all to myself.”

  “So you won’t get on the next ocean-liner and disappear from my life again?”

  “Only if you say please!”

  The look in his eyes made her fall in love all over again. And in the crackling of the fire and the smell of their passion, they both came together as one—fourteen years, a Depression and a World War dissolving into the misty air around them.

  As Gillian’s breath subsided, she could feel her heart begin to slow to a steady beat. She lay there braided in his arms; time and place felt dazed. Even now, the playfulness that simmered just under the surface had a way of showing up unexpectedly.

  “Well, it’s about time you came and got me, Mr. Christian Hunter,” Gillian said smiling mischievously. He smiled back—a wide savory grin—then pattered kisses all over her face. “Now, tell me about these legs of yours.”

  Chapter 22 - 2003

  Amidst the teeming crowds,

  To cross my path along the years.

  I wonder could I find just one,

  To pause and heed my fears.

  Fear of the years now I am old,

  My friends all gone and I’m alone.

  No kindly voice to wish me well,

  Scarce passing glance from supposed friend.

  This loneliness is what I fear,

  Which must be borne, till comes a day,

  When loneliness is swept aside,

  And only rest and peace remain.

  Chapter 22

  2003

  Burnt oranges. I can taste it on my lips now as though it were soaking in before even reaching my tongue. It’s the one thing that neither age nor illness has robbed me of—taste. How divine Daddy’s recipe was, though with all that wine and whiskey flaming atop, only us older niblets were granted a mouthful each. Only Seville oranges would do. Daddy was strict about that. But oh, how hard they were to come by in those days! I remember Mommy standing in the queue just to get one, a single orange for the whole family. Daddy would hunt them down like a grouse in pheasant season. That buttery sweet, edgy taste and caramelized sugar left me dreaming of fairies and leprechauns. Shame my son never took to such a traditional desert. I always wanted him to learn the finer things of Ireland, but I suppose over time, my homeland will become the distant memory of an old lady whose name is written in the family tree.

  “Grandma,” a voice twitters, stirring me from a rather juicy muse. I don’t like the word muse, never have. Makes me feel mousy, as though I should be scurrying about in the earth.

  “Yes, dear, I’m still here.” I pat my granddaughter’s hand lightly. Takes every ounce of energy just to lift these skeletal bones wrapped in purple twine, but she needn’t know.

  “It scares me when you just stare like that.”

  “I know, but I promise I won’t leave without saying good-bye,” I mutter, trying to sound spirited and audible. Lying on my side it’s hard to do both, but the pain is something I can’t hide if I lie on my back.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” she smiles, my pretty Gilly.

  “Will you take your glasses off, dear, so I can see your eyes?” Gilly slides them from her ears and sets them on the bedside table. “There you are! You remind me of me at your age. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “A hundred times at least, but I never tire of hearing it.”

  “I was quite something, you know. Proud—but not too proud to do the Lord’s work. I think He’s always considered me a bit of a militant,” I say, noticing how a beam of light shooting through the hospital window seems to curve straight at me. “All in good time,” I whisper just loud enough for Him to hear. “Tell me, have you been here long darling?”

  “Didn’t the nurse tell you I had just arrived? I just popped down for this,” she says eyeing her paper cup.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” But I don’t remember. I want to tell her that but I can’t bring myself to. I can’t bring myself to tell her that she’s made it just in time—time for my story to end. “Now tell me, how is Sebastian?”

  “Great. Just yesterday, he reminded me of what you said to him the first time you met.” Gilly sets her cup on the table.

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What was it?”

  “Hand me down the moon, you said. So I used that in my book!” Gilly says winking.

  “Well, he is very tall.”

  “I keep a step ladder in my pocket wherever I go, just in case,” she says, this time with a naughty wink.

  I adore my granddaughter’s spirit. “Promise me, Gilly, that you’ll never lose your zest for life? It’s the one precious thing we have. Without it, we may as well not live at all.” Sudden concern plays with her expression but I know what I’m saying and she needs to hear these words. “Whatever you do, don’t ever let foolishness or pride keep you from the man you love. I know it’s Sebastian. Do you know how I know?” Her eyes are pinned to me now. “He has sat here in the very spot you are now, holding your place whenever duties whisk you away. He has visited me several times on his own. Bet you didn’t know that?” I say with as firm a nod as I can manage. “I’m quite sure he knows full well that in the end it would make you happy. Sometimes we have long chats about you, other times he reads to me, but he has never asked for me to tell you of his visits. I’m telling you because you should know the gem you have unearthed. Only a man truly in love would do such a thing. I see it in his eyes when he talks about you, I know… because I’ve only seen it once before.”

  “In Christian’s, right?” I know my eyes are telling her what she already knows. “I wish I knew more about him. I feel like I’m guessing sometimes in my writing.”

  “You have almost all you need to know. Book your flight today after my last breath and I promise once you have been to the Isle of Man, all you will need to do is pluck the words from the air and find their rightful place.”

  The streak of sunlight fades away as the end of my story approaches and dusk begins to fall. Though how can it be dusk when dawn seemed only moments ago. Has time really been washed away from my life? I feel cold and frightened. I’ve never felt quite like this before. I should be accepting by now, but I’m not. Whose arms shall I fall into other than the Lord’s? Which of the two men who have loved me? But I already know the answer to that. I feel my heart begin to race. My darling Christian! Oh my darling! It’s you. You’re waiting for me. I can feel it. Only then will the threads of my story be tied.

  “Grandma? Are you okay?” Gilly says while wetting my lips with a cloth, a panic in her voice.

  “Yes. I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

  “Just that I wish you could stay long enough to know my book.”

  “Oh but I do. I’ve lived it.”

  “To see it published one day, I mean. I don’t have an ending yet. Please tell me… what happens to Christian?”

  Knowing in my heart my granddaughter has found my voice… a story I’ve always wanted to tell, to shout to the world but never knew how, a book I wanted to write but didn’t, she deserves to know the ending. It’s time to scrub clean that jar of pickled truths, but I will leave one morsel for her pilgrimage, the one bit she must find out for herself. Gilly pulls the vinyl chair right up to the edge of the bed and listens intently. For the first time, I believe I can hear the patter of her heart over my own.

  The sky was moody that day, the kind of sky that makes you feel alive. We’d just made love under the ledge of a crag not far from my little cottage. Christian had had a devil of a time climbing down but we couldn’t get enough of each other, and no rock face was about to stop him. We had a thrilling habit of marking our territory, and I regarded myself as quite a vixen when I felt playful and luring. The surf was only feet away and the tide was crashing in quickly. I don’t know what I was thinking. The Irish Sea is nothing to harry.

  I sat curled in his arms while the rumbling
clouds drummed their final warning. Strangely Christian made the sound almost disappear through a whisper when he made a promise to love me for all time and never leave me. Wherever he might be, he said, I shall always feel him next to me.

  I began shivering after our encounter simmered. The spray from the surf sided with the clouds so we took our clothing in one great snatch then dressed as we climbed. The rocks were now slippery and Christian wasn’t managing well. His tin legs were in the cottage. He rarely wore them at home. We both preferred it. I knew he was more comfortable without them. That’s why he was so lean, so strong from carrying his weight on his hands most of the time. But there was one rock that even his strength couldn’t hurdle. It was just too high. I shouted to him over a clap of thunder to go around but he wouldn’t hear of it. The surf was getting angry. We had no right to be there. I reached for him knowing full well I wouldn’t be able to lift him, and I lost my own footing.

  I remember the instant terror I felt as my feet slid down the rock, the cragged edges cutting through my skin while I plunged backwards into the surf. It happened so quickly until I hit the water, then my body sunk in slow motion. I was sure of it. I remember a frenzy of bubbles above me and the gray of the sky staring down at me with that look my father used to give when he was disappointed. Suddenly the beads of water calmed, the frenzy stopped, the sky still. It was strangely peaceful just for that moment, as though I was being warned that something greater was about to happen. The moment escaped and I was thrashed against the rock, my hand instantly wedged. The salty summer water clogged my throat and I began to panic until I felt my hand released then pulled upward. Christian quickly wrapped his arms around my torso and pulled me to near safety, but we weren’t safe, not until the surf’s snatch was out of reach. We climbed to the top of the bluff then fell into each other’s arms.

  That gray sky was a worm! A falsehood that couldn’t be trusted. And I was right.

  It was a Sunday morning, one week after our scare. I sat on the Hemsworth’s stone wall watching Christian test his new crop duster, a scrappy old plane he’d fixed up for a pittance. He was playing tricks in the sky, high and low, waving to me as he swooped down, skimming the tops of their barley. I could feel his freedom. It was right for him to be up there. I suppose in some minute way he felt like he was in his Typhoon again, showing off maneuvers he’d made during that mission over Belgium—the same mission that took his legs when he’d parachuted from his fighter plane only to be the target of a “potato masher” he called it, once landed. He watched as his plane spiraled to the earth in the cold of winter, and after the stick grenade, he remembered nothing but the white of the forest. No… I could do without that show!

  I told myself he needed to test it. No good having a crop duster that couldn’t do the job. Then it occurred to me that the sky looked exactly like it did when I had plunged into the sea a week earlier. It’s brooding clouds traced with that same warning. Panic raced through me as I heard the plane sputter through some low-lying clouds. My worst fear then seized me when there was no sound at all, hoping, just hoping, it was a mad gamble, intentional. I stood on the wall trying to see better when his plane came into sight. I thought I should die on the spot as I watched it fall from the sky like a shot pheasant, straight into the ground. No explosion, no smoke, just pieces of aircraft scattered everywhere.

  I couldn’t feel my limbs as I ran toward the crash. All sound was muffled and blurred except for my breathing. As the golden barley trampled underfoot in my desperate sprint, the crash seemed to move farther away. I don’t remember what happened when I finally reached him, apart from holding him in my arms on the ground and screaming without a sound escaping my lips. My darling Christian draped over me—his neck broken.

  Chapter 23 - Date = forever and a day or two, 1946

  Sisters are forever,

  No matter the tides they bring.

  Quarrels merely heighten,

  Their blessed understanding.

  Though rickety they grow,

  As the years pass by in haste.

  A giggle saved ‘specially,

  For a sister warmly embraced.

  She sees you at your worst

  And very best of days,

  Despite any trials

  She’s there in timeless ways.

  Chapter 23

  Date = forever and a day or two, 1946

  My little Cottontail,

  Do you notice how I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, inferring that you are soft? Or have you gone prickly, my dear, as a result of your frolicking in the hay with that Canadian of yours? I still have yet to hear from you, and my intuition has never failed me before! So either you write to me this very instant or I shall be pummeling your door down by the rise of the sun on the morrow! I want to meet this Mr. Christian Hunter so I can stare… him… down.

  On a more curious note, I received a card from a Mr. and Mrs. Percy Spooner thanking me for a packet of humbugs. Whoever is Percy Spooner? And why on this blessed Earth would anyone name their child Pickles? Apparently, she’s welding some sort of monstrosity for our garden and wanted to know its square footage. Christian’s name slipped between the lines so I thought I should inquire? Do me the favor, dear, when you’ve untangled yourself from the throes of gloppy passion and ask that swain of yours for details.

  Other oddities have been whirling around me these past weeks, queer I tell you! A letter from that hillbilly called Griffin arrived not two hours ago. It could only have been Roderick who slipped up and let loose my address. He’s come after me, this Griffin, I’m sure of it. Probably carries a tomahawk in his pocket. He wanted to know of your Canadian’s whereabouts. How shall I respond when my own sister refuses to answer my telephone calls and written pleas for acknowledgement? It’s been weeks! My only strand of communication seems to be through Mrs. Hemsworth, and I daren’t say I want to put up with all her dribble. She muttered something about a plane crash earlier then hung up on me. Can you believe it? That breedy louse!

  Now I must say it’s very strange, but this Griffin’s sent a package for you. It rattles as though there are bones inside. I managed to accidentally tear a corner of the wrapper and had a little sneaky peek—a lovely carved box inside but I’ve mended the paper the best I could so you wouldn’t think I had prying eyes. You know me better than that. I shall forward the box today by special delivery.

  But if I hear from you before I make way to the post, I shall bring it with me to Port St. Mary—pummeling or not, I miss you, dear sister, and Horatio’s chest is much better now. Besides, I can’t wait to meet this man again who’s looped your heart into a right mess.

  Ah, I see my threats must have worked for the telephone is finally ringing.

  Love and hugs,

  Beatrice

  Post Script—I’m on my way, darling. Hold tight.

  Chapter 24 - 2003

  And when the sun sinks in the west,

  The silent shore by waves caressed.

  Awaits the coming of the night,

  When moonlight turns to silver bright.

  Chapter 24

  2003

  “You kept your promise that day and said good-bye,” Gilly mutters, kneeling in the icy cold of winter next to her grandma’s headstone. “You were right about Sebastian, too. I knew it the moment he turned the corner in the hospital on that fateful day with a book tucked under his arm—a book I learned later he’d been reading to you. You were right about a lot of things. And my trip to England? You were right about that, too. Auntie Beaty didn’t disappoint. Even at ninety-eight, she owned the sidewalk with that mobility scooter of hers. She seemed to enjoy bowling down anything in her path,” Gilly says, unable to feign her admiration. “But when I told her I was planning on going to Cuckfield, everything changed. She was hiding something. Why else would she try to steer me away? I knew it had to be a place of significance after it had crept into at least a dozen of your most recent tales. That, combined with her reaction, was when I kn
ew I had to go there and that’s when I knew I couldn’t tell her I was also going to the Isle of Man.”

  As icy clouds puff from her mouth, Gilly gathers her thoughts. “Sebastian didn’t come with me. I suppose somehow you know that. He knew it was something I had to do on my own. Yet I couldn’t help but remember you’d be tripping over me every step of the way. Every now and then I’d find myself giggling just at the thought. How are your wings anyway, Grandma? Black and blue, no doubt, after that journey.”

  Indeed, like the slow clanging of a church bell on a quiet Sunday, the crackling of the trees summons her attention. Now you listen to me! They seem to be saying. Tell me about the Isle of Man.

  “It all started at Ockenden Manor in Cuckfield. I went despite Auntie Beaty’s wishes. A hotel and spa now! Did you know that? But I kept asking myself why your own sister wouldn’t want me to find out about Canadian troops being housed there during the war. Why would that have been such a secret? I was able to get some information on a plaque in the lobby, but what I really wanted was a roster of the soldiers stationed there at the time.” Gilly sighs, fighting her urge to tell every detail, already feeling her bones turning crumbly in this cold.

  “But when I took off my shoes on a quiet lane in Port St. Mary in the dead of winter and felt the damp, frigid cobblestone under my toes, just as you had suggested, I realized that even if I had found a roster in Cuckfield, only this place would give me the answer.” Gilly feels her mouth widen to a grin. “I had asked myself a hundred times why it was so important that I discover the answer. Why me? But I knew the reason was waiting for me in a little cottage by the sea. And even though you could have just told me yourself, the swashbuckler in you didn’t dare keep the thrill of discovery from me. ‘What a bore!’ I can hear you say about telling me the conventional way. I’m right, aren’t I, Grandma?” she says patting the headstone.